


Eighteen Sunsets

by lingering_nomad



Series: From the Ashes [6]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:30:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2430593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/pseuds/lingering_nomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris and Hawke have been 'between conversations' since that night. On the spur of the moment, Fenris decides that has to change, but how does a man ask to go forward when he does not know his own heading?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eighteen Sunsets

**Author's Note:**

> **Topography:** “spoken dialogue,” “ _flashback dialogue_ ,” ‘ _thoughts_ ,’ _emphasis_  
>  **A/N:** This story is told from Fenris' POV. He is trying to process emotions and events that nothing in his life prepared him for. His thought process is not linear and that is reflected in the flow, so please note the topography, yeah? The setting shifts between Fenris and Hawke physically standing in a location and talking, to events in the past. Big space gaps and dialogue in italics indicate a transition from what is happening in real time to an event in Fenris' head. It's as easy to read as I know how to make it, though if you're looking for something to help you sleep at 3 a.m. this fic probably won't help.

Dogging Hawke’s footsteps from the tavern, Fenris is sure of nothing except that he is deliberately chasing down an angry mage.

 

“… _I heard that Tevinter slaves are kept oiled. So they…_ glisten _._ ” The last word was drawn out, lingering in her mouth like a flavour being savoured. “ _Did your master oil you up? Did you..._ glisten _for him?”_

Fenris shifted on his stool, feigning apathy as he sipped his mead. Don’t react, don’t let on. _“I was his bodyguard.”_

Isabela cooed, sounding amused. The swells of her breasts pressed against his arm and he caught the scent of whisky and sweat as she leaned in, murmuring, _“Always close at hand. Always within reach. Glistening…”_

 

Revulsion shudders through him as the exchange replays in his mind and the night air that stings his face feels colder than it should. If Danarius ever caught him with a woman like Isabela, all pouty, sloe-eyed cleavage, speculating on the more sordid aspects of his servitude...Indeed, the magister’s wrath would have been beyond imagining. Hawke does not own him, and the Fereldan's taste for sadism doesn’t come close to matching that of the mage who did, but Fenris has witnessed his ire when properly riled. It does not make for a pleasant sight, and jealousy is hardly exclusive to magisters.

He knows what lurks behind the Amell Crest, beneath the handshakes and the half-smiles: Hawke is a cutthroat. His restraint is reserved for the gentry of Hightown and the odd templar he cannot gut with impunity, but those closest to him never have to speculate on his mood. If his temper is roused, the offender does not remain ignorant for long and yet, if not for Corff calling out Hawke's order and Fenris glancing up to spot a sweep of long, black hair and a scabbard embossed with Chasind runes fading into the night, the man’s presence at the tavern would have gone unmarked.

Imploding the place would certainly not have improved matters, but Hawke has never been the sort to simply _walk away._ It is, ‘out of character’ in Varric’s parlance and if there is one thing Fenris refuses to abide, it is an unpredictable mage. Never mind that Isabela's needling has been going on for years, or that Hawke has never openly protested. That was _before_ —

Fenris stops. A wall rises at the end of the alley he entered, breaking his stride and his train of thought both. “Venhedis!” he hisses under his breath as he turns and begins stalking back in the direction he came from. His quarry has a smuggler’s understanding of the labyrinth that is Lowtown’s byways and he’s gaining a new appreciation for the advantage that grants when throwing off pursuit. As he pauses to listen for the rustle of a thick woollen coat, the fall of sturdy leather on the cobbles, he assures himself that placating the apostate is a matter of survival. Danarius will never relent. Their scrimmage with Hadriana has proven as much. Whatever skills Fenris might command with a blade, whatever laws of nature his markings allows him to bend, neither will be of indefinite use against the Fade and what dwells there. Some fires can only be quelled by flame and without a mage on his side, he would’ve been captured or dead several times over since settling in Kirkwall.

He turns a corner and, as if to belabour the point, a peripheral shift in the shadows is all the warning he receives.

The blow lands like a battering ram. As the inevitable volley of stars bursts across his vision, a steely grip clamps down on his arm, propelling him in an arc until the rough-hewn stone of a wall rushes up from behind. The impact knocks the air from his lungs; a glove-covered hand at his throat stops him from drawing it back.

Instinct flares and the markings blaze, casting their faint luminescence across the face of his opponent. As alternatives go, it could have been infinitely worse, though, even through the daze of the impact, Fenris notes that Hawke in full warrior guise makes for a remarkably forbidding sight. The human is grim-faced, sword-arm cocked, several inches of blade already glinting above the sheathe. The glow of the lyrium seems to catch him off guard, however.

Hawke blinks. Once, twice and by the third sweep of lashes he staggers backward, the hand on Fenris’ neck retracting as if scorched.

Scuffle aborted, the elf sets his weight against the wall and chokes down a breath, rubbing his throat, flexing his jaw. Either the Fereldan is more furious than he realised or Hawke truly hadn’t known who he was accosting.

The mage takes up a vigil against the opposite wall and Fenris swears he can feel those iron grey eyes pan across his form as he recovers. He straightens finally, glancing up. Hawke is silent. Between his black hair, black coat, black gloves and black boots, his form remains half-obscured by the night, but the alley is narrow. If they each stretch out their arms, their hands will meet and Fenris knows where to look now. He searches Hawke’s face, steeling himself for the resentment he expects to see. Except, that is not what he finds.

Instead, Hawke looks wary, slightly apologetic and wholly bewildered by Fenris’ presence in the alley.

“Why are you out here, Wolf?” he speaks at last and the first thought that comes to mind is how much Fenris has missed the sound of that voice. Smooth and a little heady, like good liqueur. Just this side of brusque. Tinged with curiosity and the barest hint of concern, but what lands as hard as that punch did, is:

 

 _“…Wolf?”_ Fenris questioned the first time.

It was the night after Carver’s letter. Little more than confirmation of his survival and a snide account of his duties as a Warden, but Hawke’s mirth was reaching his eyes for the first time in months and Fenris opened a bottle of the Agreggio to celebrate.

It was summer. Hawke was dressed in a sleeveless tunic, all broad shoulders and thick biceps as he shrugged. “ _In Ferelden, they’re, ‘misunderstood’ one might say. Hunted to near extinction a few decades ago, but they found a way to hold on. My ancestors, the_ _Alamarri…”_ Hawke grinned and glanced down, hand raking through his hair as he was prone to do when he was losing at cards. “ _They believed them to be guardians chosen by the gods._

_“They’re clever. Noble. Resilient. Pack hunters, even if they do have a reputation for independence.”_

A pause, with Hawke peering past a lock of loose hair, expression candid. _“It suits you.”_

Fenris had to swallow to open his throat. “ _You think so?_ ”

“ _I do._ ”

 

He offered no protest, and Hawke never uses it in the company of others. It’s small as intimacies go and yet, in this moment, hearing it tumble from Hawke’s mouth as though nothing has changed – it burns like a brand.

He tries to dismiss it as folly: Fenris, Wolf – it’s the same blighted _thing!_

Only, it isn’t. Not at all.

One was bestowed by a man who owned him, who values submission, blind obedience. The other, was conferred in friendship, a token of camaraderie and regard. It carries the seeds of respect and support, but also, of trust, of responsibility and the potential to wound.

It is something to live up to, but…hasn’t he already failed?

“Do not call me that.”

The objection falls from Fenris’ lips before he can think and he curses himself as Hawke’s expression shutters. A muscle tightens near the mage’s jaw, as if biting something back. Arms as thick around as Fenris’ thighs, lock across Hawke’s chest, shielding his heart perhaps, as he waits to hear the aim of Fenris’ pursuit.

Not knowing it himself and beginning to panic, the elf settles on bluster. “You have no right to eavesdrop on private conversations.” The accusation sounds petty and evasive, even to his own ears, but the charade is driftwood to a drowning man and Fenris grabs hold with both hands. Hawke stares at him dubiously for a moment. A gloved hand comes up, raking back stray tendrils come loose from the braiding meant to keep it from his eyes. His gaze flicks briefly skyward. Praying no doubt, though whether for strength or restraint, Fenris doesn’t dare guess.

Hawke sighs. “I’m not sure how this escaped your notice, but the bar of the Hanged Man is hardly secluded. If it’s privacy you want, I’m sure Isabela’s rooms would suit your purpose.” The remark might’ve been scornful, had Hawke’s heart been in it at all. As it stands, it sounds merely jaded, tired, causing the bands of guilt around Fenris’ chest to coil ever tighter.

What _is_ he doing here?

Hawke doesn’t deserve this. Least of all—He has to think to determine the date. Even years into his liberty, such details have a tendency to bleed together. He mentally tallies the days: ninth of Frumentum, Harvestmere. Just over half a year since Leandra’s murder. And Fenris knows, because it’s a loss that lodges sharp and cold between his own ribs as well. He owed much to the Amell matriarch. Literacy being foremost on the list, but that is not the sum of it. She cooked for him, mended his clothes, told him stories about her brother and husband and children, always thanking him for his time and his company as though a runaway slave might have more pressing engagements to attend. It’s as close to a family as he remembers having. And as unexpectedly as it crossed his path, it was gone.

“Hawke. Wreath, I—”

The mage’s eyes widen and it’s all Fenris can do to keep his gaze from wavering. The man’s mother was the last to call him by his given name. Until that night, eighteen sunsets ago. When he lay breathless and writhing, reciting Hawke’s name like his own, personal Chanticle and then, “ _Wreath. Call me Wreath,”_ husked against his lips in-between searing, open-mouthed kisses.

This is as close as they’ve come to acknowledging what lies between them. Not merely sex, but what came before and during and after. The moment feels like a precipice and the history that precedes it yawns like a chasm at Fenris’ feet.

It may not have started in Hadriana’s cavern, but what transpired there was the catalyst that brought them where they stood.

In that cursed place, with the press of black magic and the stench of too much death upon the stagnant air, Fenris raged and Hawke remained calm, stoically giving him a place to pour all the venom bursting from wounds he’d long thought dulled to faded scars. Hawke was less accommodating later, when Fenris sought him out at his home, but that was to be expected after the abruptness of his departure with no word as to when, or _if_ he would return.

 

“… _That’s it? Just an apology?”_

The mage had washed and changed clothes, but his eyes were bloodshot, features drawn as though he hadn’t slept.

“ _If you wish, I can go. You need not see me again.”_ A sincere enough offer, spurred by Fenris’ remorse. Hawke, however, merely scoffed as if insulted by the notion, soothing his fear without chaffing his pride.

“ _All I want to know, is what happened in there.”_

Fenris doesn’t recall precisely what was said; only that his explanation accomplished little aside from riling them both. He attempted to leave. Hawke refused to allow his departure. There was the burning chill as the markings flared and then, a fire of a different sort as Hawke’s mouth sealed over his.

What followed, cannot be called ‘gentle’ by any stretch of the word.

What passed between them was too raw, too visceral for finesse, but there was something akin to reverence in Hawke’s touch, as if every inch of contact was a privilege the apostate was not entirely convinced he deserved.

 _“Tell me what you want,”_ Hawke said as they (quite literally) fell into his bed. Tentative, yet determined. As if he would pull the very sun from its perch if Fenris so desired and that was enough to coax out the truth: he wanted Hawke inside him. To breach and fill him, yes, but more than that, he wanted to be taken, to be claimed – to _belong_ to.

 _‘A slave’s_ _need!_ ’ his own voice mocked him. Submissive. Shameful. But undeniable in its potency. What he needed, was respite. From the past, from the future; from fallibility and consequence. What he craved, to the point of yearning in that moment, was the old, familiar solace of surrender, stripped of fear, free of force. And if there was anyone in Thedas he could trust with _that_ admission, it was Hawke.

If the common tongue had words to define such things, Fenris doesn’t know them and so his body spoke on his behalf. Limbs shifting, spine arching until all ambiguity was gone. He remembers staring at the flecks of sky amid the storm-cloud grey of Hawke’s irises, not daring to blink, hardly deigning to breathe. If he saw even a hint of scorn in that gaze—But he _didn’t_.

What he got, was a gruff appeal to the Maker, sword-callused hands tangling in his hair, and a kiss that felt like a vow.

After fleeing Danarius, before coming to Kirkwall, Fenris avoided even the reference of such acts, certain that he would happily perish without ever partaking again. When his path crossed with Hawke’s, he was at a low point, ready to give _anything_ – gold, blood and yes, even _that_ – for the chance to stop running. To his surprise and no small amount of misgiving, all the then bounty hunter claimed to want in return for his aid was the use of Fenris’ blade-arm. Any ulterior motives seemed focussed on the relative quietude of the mansion he’d claimed and the occasional sharing of imported wine.

It was during one of the younger Hawke’s not-quite-sober tavern rants that Fenris came to learn of the elder’s stance on bedding women. Which is to say, he abstains. Fenris still isn’t sure if the caveat is entirely due to a preference for men, or whether Hawke was swayed in part by the uniquely southern fear of siring magical offspring, but the idea of pursuing… _something_ with him became vaguely fascinating from that point on. It began as potential currency, a last-ditch quid pro quo in the event that Fenris’ need for assistance ever outstripped the Fereldan’s goodwill. Then, as the realisation dawned that the mage was more inclined to take on a dragon than conclude such a deal, it slowly began to grow into more.

On the night of its culmination, Fenris consented on the premise that sex with Hawke might actually be good. Not merely pleasurable, but cleansing – an experience to juxtapose the depravity he’d lived in Tevinter. And it _was_.

Danarius’ pleasure lurked in how far he could remove his slaves from their own, in the depths of debasement he could make them beg for with a look, a smirk, a word or two of gentle condescension, “… _Good boy._ ”

What he remembers of Hawke, is the slide of their mouths as broad, oiled fingers coaxed him open, the shift of muscles in the back beneath his hands, panting breaths against his neck and a convulsive grip on his thigh as the human eased his way inside him. There was pain as well. Fenris’ own impatience had seen to that, though not as much as expected. Hawke kept kissing, kept stroking, steadily buffeting him with sensation, until the ache turned deep and sharp and sweet. His pleasure was Hawke’s, indivisibly and indispensably linked. They found a rhythm, primal and easy as the roll of the tides and for a while, Fenris’ awareness contracted to the heat and strength of the body above his, to the ebb and surge of motion within.

He even managed to forget what Hawke truly was, and what he could _do_ , which made the reminder all the more stark when it came.

It shouldn’t have jarred him as much as it did. All mages are vessels of the Fade and the vast majority have precious little control over when and where it ends up spilling. Hawke might be more disciplined than most, but with his guard down, flesh locked in an act defined by impulse and emotion, rapidly hurtling toward its crescendo…

Fenris noticed the ripple of mana, like a play of light and heat in the distance swelling along Hawke’s skin, but drunk as he was on the bliss of unencumbered lust, meeting the man thrust for thrust as he chased his release, he paid it no mind – until the thrice-cursed lyrium began to throb beneath his skin.

At first, he didn’t recognise what he was seeing. The memories flashed like starbursts, there for an instant, gone the next. The moment came as he did. A splitting of sorts. As if the edge of pulsating pleasure had cut clean through him and into the Veil and suddenly, all that was hidden came bursting into view. He didn’t black out so much as lose himself in the maze of what had been. How long he stayed there, he couldn’t say, but when he came back to himself Hawke was asleep. He’d searched his mind for the memories – he remembered remembering – but they were _gone_.

The sense of déjà vu that followed turned his stomach. He sat upright, face in his hands as a new series of events replayed through mind:

Tevinter.

After the ritual.

There was a high, embellished ceiling. A firm surface at his back. Light, even dimmed, stabbing at his eyes. It was not the first time he’d awakened. He had…fragments of memory, of many chanting voices, of an impatient instruction, “ _Ego postulo magis!_ ” That was followed by a flare of agony, his muscle twisting, seizing hard enough to crack bone. There was a sense of formlessness and the sensation of falling, but inward, as though disintegrating into himself.

As his senses returned, his skin felt tight, stretched too thin across buzzing, burning flesh. There was the tang of blood, it’s flavour stale and acrid where it pooled at the back of his throat. What brought the wretched tears of panic to his eyes, however, was the airless, black abyss of not knowing – where he was, or why, or _who_. And then that demon distorted visage filled his vision, smiling down, a snake charming a mouse already convulsing in the throes of its venom. “ _Ah, my little Fenris. How splendid to have you with me again…”_

When he went to Hawke that night, it was to lay down some of the hatred he harboured toward others of his kind.

Instead, he was reminded of its reason for being.

When he went to Hawke’s bed, it was with the hope that what transpired there would help to dull his pain.

Instead, he poured salt on old wounds.

What he wanted, above all, was to go forward.

Instead, he ricocheted back to the start.

He couldn’t stay after that, but neither could he leave Hawke to wake up alone.

“… _We can work through this,”_ the mage offered in return for Fenris’ explanation, spoken in a voice that was gravel on sand. He held Fenris’ gaze as he spoke, heart laid bare in the roiling grey depths of his eyes, and Fenris couldn’t miss the silent scream beneath the temperance: ‘ _Please don’t leave me, I’ve lost too much as it is!’_

Hawke is a proud man. The unapprised might call him ‘arrogant’ and if there is one thing he does not do, it is beg. That is as close as Fenris has ever heard him come, but between watching him lose his brother to the Wardens and his mother to a madman, he made a vow to help shoulder Hawke's burdens as best as he was able. Barring that, the least he can do is not add the weight of his own weakness to the load and so, he turned his back and turned Hawke down.

 

Eighteen days have passed since those words were spoken. Close to three weeks of deafening silence. Not since Hawke’s stint in the Deep Roads, at the genesis of their fellowship, have they gone so long between conversations and Fenris… _misses_ it. Misses _him_.

The bastard can get under his skin and chafe like nettles, but he soothes too – a ratio that improves the less time he spends with a certain Blight-addled Abomination. And as often as Hawke makes him angry, not once, in almost four years of knowing him, has he ever made Fenris believe himself inferior. Whatever else Hawke is, he is safety. He is constancy. And without the prospect of his company, his manse in Hightown is beginning to feel more like a crypt than a home.

And so it happens, standing in a dimly lit passage that smells of urine and lye, that Fenris knows why a prospective tryst with brash-but-beautiful woman holds less sway than chasing a cranky apostate through the backstreets of Lowtown: he doesn’t want to simply _give up_. On Hawke, on their…whatever-it-is. And he doesn’t want Hawke to give up on it, either.

Progress indeed and yet, what he _does_ want, isn’t nearly as clear.

Hawke’s expression grows pensive as the seconds drag on until, at last, he heaves a sigh and takes a cautious step closer. His brows draw down, lips parting and Fenris sees the misunderstanding unfold before the first syllable hits the air.

“You don’t have to explain, you know. About Isabela.” The mage shrugs. “I have eyes. And ears. And Maker knows, she’s made no bones about—” He stops short; clears his throat. “Look Wol—uh, Fenris, I understand, alright? You need normalcy, and I’m—” Another awkward rise of a shoulder. “I understand.” As Hawke speaks, Fenris spies the motion of a gloved hand from the corner of his eye, as though the man thought to reach for him, only to abort the attempt along with the use of his nickname.

 And Maker knows, she’s made no bones about—” He stops short; clears his throat. “Look Wol—uh, Fenris, I understand, alright? You need normalcy, and I’m—” Another awkward rise of a shoulder. “I understand.” As Hawke speaks, Fenris spies the motion of a gloved hand from the corner of his eye, as though the man thought to reach for him, only to abort the attempt along with the use of his nickname.

“… _What has magic touched that it doesn’t spoil?_ ”

Something hard lodges in Fenris’ chest and his eyes clamp shut, mouthing, “Fasta vas,” under his breath.

So much to regret.

How is he ever going to mend what lays broken—

“Watch out!”

For the second time that night, Fenris’ back collides with a wall of stone as a wall of burly human slams into his front. He thinks he feels Hawke jerk, but the mage is already rounding on the mouth of the alley, power syphoning through the Veil as shimmering eddies begin swirling ‘round his hands.

Fenris’ own weapon is free of its sheath before he sees them.

Dwarves.

Carta.

Half a dozen at first count. Five blade-wielders and a sniper, closing in from either side.

A surge of mana lashes out like a whip, dragging the sniper to the ground and collapsing his ribcage with a wet crunch of bone and a gurgling shriek. The others charge and as Fenris raises his sword, it occurs to him that Hawke’s evasive tactics and punch-and-choke greeting seem far less vindictive of a sudden. Then, the first slash of a dagger glances off his blade. The rush of battle surges around him and all thought is driven from his mind.

It becomes swiftly apparent that something is not quite right about their assailants. Whatever the cause, it serves to make them reckless, which depreciates Fenris’ concern. Hawke’s magic blazes through the alley, knocking the last of their opponents off balance. It is a fatal misstep as Fenris swings, blade cleaving unhindered. Skin splits, muscle parts, vertebrae detaches. The body spasms as the head swerves sharply into the darkness, the dwarf’s own daggers sounding his death knell as they clatter uselessly at his feet.

The corpse had yet to finish falling when Fenris straightens, eyes darting, scanning for onlookers. Ambush or no, they were not _that_ baldy overwhelmed. There was no cause for Hawke to expose himself so carelessly. He turns, drawing a breath to berate the fool mage for his brazen…only to have it catch in his throat.

Time slows as he watches Hawke sway. Slump. Crumple in a barely audible swoosh of coat and scrape of boots. The hilt of the human’s sword protrudes above his shoulder, blade still in the sheath.

Fenris’ grip turns nerveless. His own weapon drops with a clang as he dashes, sprinting blindly. He trips over a corpse and scrambles the rest of the way on all fours. The darkness becomes denser closer to the ground and it is only as he kneels at Hawke’s side that he spots the stalk of a crossbow bolt protruding from his back. Just below the shoulder. Slightly downward angle. Too far to the right for the heart.

An artery?

No!

He would’ve gone down during the fight if it was, which left—

Hawke coughs, a hoarse, hacking rattle that confirms Fenris’ suspicions: punctured lung. Knowing the nature of the injury does not reveal the treatment, however, and tending the wounded is never a duty that falls to him. Fenris checks the spot where the arrow juts, less than an inch above Hawke’s clothing. The wool is soaked through, staining his hands an inky red.

“Hawke! Wreath! What must I—?” He fights to stay calm, but what he can see of Hawke’s face between streaks of his hair is shockingly pale – the colour of ashes left too long in the grate. With shaking fingers, he brushes back the strands. Sticky darkness oozes from Hawke’s nose, staining his lips, leaving a macabre smear across his cheek as Fenris sweeps the locks aside.

So much blood. _Too_ much, which means, “Poison!” Fenris breathes, aghast.

“W—Wolf?”

That one, rasping syllable takes more energy than Hawke has to spare, worsening the grisly seepage from his airways.

“I’m here! What do I _do,_ Wreath?!”

Fenris has taken to rummaging through whatever pockets he can reach with the least amount of jostling, but he’s coming up short. The ornate flask on Hawke’s belt contains only lyrium, an apostate’s failsafe against templars and demons alike, but the man clearly did not come to Lowtown spoiling for battle. All Fenris finds is a white handkerchief, embroidered with the red crest of the Amells. Likely a gift from Leandra, though Fenris doubts very much that she would’ve foreseen its eventual purpose, as he uses it to clean blood off her eldest son’s face.

Hawke’s eyes flutter open, rolling ominously in their sockets. “You…hurt?” he chokes, sending another swell of red past his lips.

“I’m _fine,_ you fool!” Fenris snarls. Why is the idiot wasting his breath inquiring about _him_ when—

Something like relief dilutes the pain on Hawke’s face. His fingers twitch, hand lifting off the ground, advancing toward Fenris’ before another bloody coughing fit saps the strength for even that from his limbs.

Fenris lunges to his feet and breaks into a sprint. He would realise later that he left both their weapons untended, but even then it would seem irrelevant. All that matters is Anders, Diamondback, Varric’s suite. Martin the Raider is there, along with Shady Sam from the docks. The take was larger than average, enough to keep the game going past the usual hour.

It _had_ to be.

 

“… _I can’t imagine what Hawke sees in you._ ”

Such was the healer’s idea of idle chatter over cards. A generic barb, easily deflected with a curt, ‘ _Likewise,’_ or a sarcastic, ‘ _How surprising_ ,’ but with his heart bobbing too close to the surface, Fenris impaled himself upon it instead.

“ _It is done. Leave it be._ ”

Anders looked at him askance, conveying enough haughty appraisal in that single sweep of his eyes to be a match for any magister. “ _Well, good. I always knew he had some sense._ ”

Again, Fenris should’ve deflected. ‘ _Yes, for a man who takes counsel from Blight-mad sewer rats, Hawke is very sensible.’_

Instead, once again, he threw himself upon the spines. “ _Do not make light of this. Leaving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done._ ”

Fenris’ focus refused to resettle on the game after that. He played his hand and excused himself, bringing him to the bar and his starring role in Isabela’s oily sex-slave reverie.

 

As he dashes through the streets of Lowtown, the wind howls in his ears, chilling the blood on his tunic and drowning out the sound of his boots on the stone. He flies past dormant trader stalls and the prostitutes plying their trade, all the while cataloguing markers by which to find his way back, as much as to where he is headed.

As he tears through the alleys, supplications race through his mind, ‘ _Please_ _let the bastard Warden be there! Please don’t let it be too late!_ ’

The seconds stretch like aeons. One minute becomes two, and then three with the Hanged Man’s doors still excruciatingly out of reach. With thoughts echoing the frantic pace of his strides, he begins to direct his pleas outward, into the night and past the stars. ‘ _Blessed Andraste, Bride of the Maker, please…!’_

He bolts up a set of crumbling steps, veering left, and suddenly the tavern’s macabre signage fills his sights like an apparition. He bursts through the doors, dodges a cursing Edwina and startles Norah into dropping her tray. A chorus of voices rise in protest, but Fenris doesn’t slow down to glance back. Taking the stairs three at a time, he lurches to a halt in Varric’s doorframe, stopping only to skim the faces at the table.

Anders’ long, thin form is folded into a corner, brown eyes rounding warily as Fenris’ stare settles on him. He has a fairly clear impression of what the human is seeing: a winded, hard-eyed elf, splattered with several dwarves worth of gore. The contents of one’s skull has congealed in chunks along his torso, the result of phasing an arm through the thug’s head, while parrying a dagger-swipe from one of his fellows. The coppery tang of their blood is palpable, matted in his hair and soaking his clothes, but he has known Anders for years. It isn’t the suggestion of carnage so much as direct, unflinching scrutiny that brings the ex-Warden’s hackles up. The blonde doesn’t like anyone looking too closely. Not even those who have supposedly seen all he had to hide – which begs the question: how much more does the man strive to conceal?

At any other time, the healer’s apprehension might’ve been an advantage worth pressing, but right now, it is a hindrance Fenris cannot afford. “It’s Hawke!” he grits out, scattering coin and cards as he clambers onto the table and bodily hauls the mage from his seat.

Hawke’s name performs a magic of its own as it spurs not only Anders into immediate, unquestioning cooperation, but Varric as well. Being the reluctant head of a Merchant family (and the Hanged Man’s most popular patron) apparently has its rewards. Suddenly, there are potions aplenty and the crowds part as though the Divine herself stands at Fenris’ back. Leading the way though the alleys, he resumes his prayer. He offers no bargains, makes no promises of repentance or conversion. All he does, is plead.

As a man born of a people whose gods are myth, petitioning on behalf of an Andrastian apostate, it seems like presumption enough.

When they come upon Hawke, there is a shift of sorts in Anders’ demeanour. Fenris has an inkling that it has to do with the spirit the mage harbours inside him, perhaps aligning to his purpose after some internal debate.

“Keep watch!” Anders barks, self-possessed for the moment at least as he rushes to Hawke’s side.

“He’s gonna be fine, Spike. Blondie’ll fix it,” Varric assures, though to Fenris’ elven ears, it sounds like the dwarf strives to convince himself as much as anyone.

For once, however, the storyteller’s version proves accurate enough.

 

“…Carta, huh,” Varric states more than asks, stooping to examine one of the corpses. “Hm, strange. I know you and Junior went a few rounds with them back when you ran with Athenril, but that was business. The Carta is the one Big C in Thedas that doesn’t nurse a grudge on principle. Bad for the margins.”

The dwarf pauses, ostensibly to think, though knowing Varric, dramatic effect is equally plausible. “Looks like we have a bona fide mystery on our hands. Unless you’ve been holding out on me, Hawke?”

The man in question stands propped against a wall, his own bloody coat wrapped around his shoulders. His tunic and undershirt lay in bloody rags on the ground; the only casualties of Anders’ care for the night. Hawke’s eyes flick to the dwarf, expression blank.

“Yes, Varric,” he says, tone deadpan beneath the scrape of exhaustion. “In-between doing the Knight Commander’s job for her, keeping Merrill’s Blight-mirror from killing us all and knob-slobbering an eight foot heretic – who, incidentally, is going to storm the Keep with my muted carcass impaled on his horns if he finds out about you-know-what – I became unaccountably bored, and decided to piss off Orzammar’s criminal elite.”

There’s a beat of silence and then, Varric’s rugged face splits into a grin. “What’d I tell you, Spike. Good as new!” he declares, landing a genial slap on Fenris’ back.

The elf’s own assessment isn’t quite so glowing, however. Hawke’s voice is ragged. His face holds fast to its deathly pallor and his eyes look bruised, incongruously vulnerable amidst the strong, sharp angles of his half-Wilder features. Small tremors wrack his form. Fenris can’t tell if it’s due to cold, or weakness, or both, but Hawke is breathing. He’s upright. He’s speaking.

He is _alive_.

Releasing a breath, Fenris’ thumb moves over the hank of drying linen he clutches and recognises it for the handkerchief he pulled from Hawke’s coat. It slipped his mind, if not from his grasp as he dashed to find help.

It’s ruined now, irreversibly soaked with the blood of its owner.

“… _Watch out!_ ”

The warning rings anew in Fenris’ mind and he scowls, grip tightening at the implication: that bolt was meant for _him_. Accounting for the difference between his and Hawke’s statures, the crosshairs were trained on his throat. Hawke is a warrior; his magic, a weapon. It pushes and pulls. It crushes and shields. It can force the very Fade into a man, making him convulse until his flesh bursts apart, but it does not _heal_ , and without any potions on hand…

Fenris’ gaze slants to one of the dwarves at his feet. A set of sightless, soulless eyes stare back. He swallows, jaw tight and looks away.

Very deliberately, the elf sets about peeling the blood-stained linen off his palm and twisting it into a rope. He fashions a loop, slips it over his wrist and secures the knot. He cannot keep it indefinitely. Blood, and especially that of a mage in Kirkwall, is too incriminating a thing to put on display, but he’ll find a way to improvise. He will wear it. And if he ever again believes it best to sever ties with this man, he will feel its grip and remember.

Varric is still talking, pretending to speculate on the Carta’s motives while Anders pokes about the bodies for clues. In truth, they are simply waiting for Hawke to regain enough of his strength to walk back to the Hanged Man and a night of recouping in Varric’s rooms.

Gathering his courage, Fenris tilts his chin up and looks the Fereldan mage in the eye. He still isn’t sure what the future holds or what he wishes to strive for, but answering Hawke’s nod of solemn thanks with a nod of his own, conveys all that is needed right now.

**Author's Note:**

>  **End A/N:** Here's the [codex reference](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Wolf) for the Alamarri take on wolves. Also, English version of the in Tevene quote (aka Google Translate Latin):  
>  • Ego postulo magis: “I need more!” referring to sacrificial blood used to power the ritual. Basically, an instruction to kill another slave.


End file.
